


Storm & Snow

by Zazou



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Sansa Storm, Sansa as a bastard, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-18
Updated: 2018-10-18
Packaged: 2019-08-03 18:27:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16331258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zazou/pseuds/Zazou
Summary: Ever since Sansa Storm flowered her uncle Renly has assured her that the King would make a fine match for her.  Some Braavosi magister or a merchant prince from Qarth, someone with enough coin to get the crown off the lion’s teat.But now that the match has been made Sansa isn't sure how to earn the love of her betrothed.





	Storm & Snow

Sansa Storm carefully drew the essential lines on her loom’s vertical warp threads. Her Uncle Renly had been confused when she asked for lessons in tapestry making. Weaving was tedious work better suited to an artisan than a young lady. He just didn’t understand. With this skill, she could be of service to any household that would have her. Besides, personal handmade tapestries made wonderful gifts. Gifts were an essential part of earning love and acceptance. 

Eventually, Sansa had persuaded her uncle that weaving could prove useful skill, after all, a baseborn girl needed talents to recommend her. That’s why he indulged her with extra lessons in music, Valyrian, calligraphy, astronomy, drawing, painting, botany, dancing, history, lacemaking, etc. Each accomplishment and skill was another arrow in her quiver, another way to distract potential suitors from the unfortunate circumstances of her birth. 

The trouble was Sansa’s betrothed, didn’t seem impressed by her education. Nothing Sansa did seemed to pique the interest of Jon Snow. When she had first arrived at Winterfell she presented Jon Snow with a betrothal gift, books for the library in their new holdfast. Each tome was carefully selected and full of invaluable information that they would need to repopulate the Gift. There were texts on agricultural practices, engineering, architecture, mining, and the art of warfare. Sansa had hoped that her betrothed would be pleased that she was preparing for their future together, but he just muttered his thanks and shuffled off. 

The rest of the Starks had been excited when she’d offered to paint a family portrait for them but Jon was constantly yawning and fidgeting during their sittings. Last night, Sansa had dragged her high harp into the great hall and performed an original song about Elenei and Durran. When she played the final note, Jeyne Poole and Beth Cassel were in tears, even the formidable Lady Stark seemed wistful, but Jon had barely looked up from his dinner. The bigger problem was his refusal to be drawn out. Uncle Renly always called Sansa a sparkling conversationalist, but her future husband seemed to be immune to her alleged charms. 

“What are you making?”

Startled, she turned around and found Jon Snow hoovering over her. Gods above! He was as quiet as a shadow cat. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you.” 

“No, it’s alright, my lord,” Sansa assured him. “I was just lost in my thoughts. I’m making a tapestry of the Godswood.” 

“Oh….”

Jon nodded. Sansa waited a moment for him to continue speaking, but he seemed at a loss. Well, he had sought her out so she’d better make the most of the opportunity. Sansa pulled some of her sketches out of her basket of bobbins.

“I’ve also been working on some designs for our House crest.” She said rising from her chair. 

“Oh?” 

Sansa smoothed out her indigo skirts and approached him. 

“What do you think?” 

Each piece of parchment was covered in drawings of white direwolves in various poses, bearing their fangs, rearing up on their hind legs, racing through blizzards. Each one had a different background, a starry night sky, the Wall, a snowy cliff face with stormy waves crashing against it. 

Sansa studied Jon as he looked over her designs. He wasn’t dashing like Ser Loras, but he was rather handsome with his impressive build, full lips, and striking coloring. He favored his lord father just as she did. To be fair, most acknowledged bastards probably looked like their fathers otherwise the lords would never claim them.

“They’re all very nice.” 

The lukewarm platitude irritated Sansa. They were discussing their house crest not some applique for a new gown. How could he have no opinion on the matter? Why couldn’t he see how important this was? 

“What do you like about them?” She gently prompted. 

“I like the wolf bit.” 

Sansa pursed her lips. Every one of her designs had a “wolf bit.” Why was he so determined to be unhelpful? She took a deep breath and was suddenly overwhelmed with the scent of her betrothed, pine, sweat and worn leather. It wasn’t the rosewater and frankincense of the Knight of Flowers, but it was a pleasant aroma. 

Could Jon smell her? She used fragrant birch sweet and bergamot oil to keep her skin smooth and her hair soft. Sansa took a few steps closer and ran her fingers through her red hair, hoping that he might catch a whiff. 

“Well…. Mayhaps I should draw inspiration from our new family name?” 

Jon nodded but didn’t take the hint. 

“What will our family be called?” 

“Oh…I don’t know. I suppose we’ll be the Snows of Queen’s Crown.”

“But then people will think that our children are bastards.” 

Jon scratched his beard and furrowed his brow. 

“I hadn’t thought of that.” 

Sansa fought the urge to roll her eyes. Of course, he hadn’t. It seemed to her that he’d given very little thought to their future together.  
There had already been a House Greystark, so that name was out. The Karstarks had taken the first few letters of their descendant’s name and added it to the original family name. Jostark? No, that was just silly. Greywinter. Greyfang. Mayhaps a combination of both their house words? Yellowwinter, Greyfury? No, those all sounded wrong somehow.

“If you like we could make one of our house colors red… like your hair.” 

It was a non sequitur but at least he was finally showing an interest. Her frustration melted away. 

“The first men believe that red hair is lucky. They call it being kissed by fire.” 

"I inherited my hair from my mother. Sometimes I wish I favored her more,” Sansa could feel herself starting to ramble, but she couldn’t seem to stop. “However, if I didn’t have the Baratheon look the Lannisters would have never let father claim me. Still, I’m grateful that I have something of her at least."

Jon nodded. She knew he truly understood. Had the Gods given Jon something of his mother? Only Lord Stark knew. 

“Is your mother from the North?” The second the words passed his lips Jon’s face fell. Sansa felt a sudden lump in her throat. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…” 

“No, it’s alright.” It was uncouth to ask about a natural born child’s parentage, but Sansa had been the one to bring up the subject. Besides, Jon was finally showing an interest in her, she couldn’t afford to let her delicate sensibilities get it the way. 

“I used to think she was northern because of my name.” 

“It’s pretty. Your name, I mean.”

“Thank you.” Sansa felt a flutter in her tummy. That was the first time he’d ever complimented her. 

“I was not named by my mother but by the midwife.” 

Sansa wasn’t sure if she should reveal her mother’s identity. It seemed wrong to share such closely guarded information so freely. Besides, it wasn’t truly her secret to keep or give away. 

“My mother was… is a highborn Stormlander.”

Sansa had been eight years old when Ser Cortnay finally told her the truth. Her mother was his younger sister, Shyra Penrose. According to Ser Cortnay, Sansa had inherited her mother’s love of songs and animals. Once he had reminisced about how Shyra spoiled all their family’s animals rotten, feeding the hounds from her plate and sneaking to the stables to braid flowers into the horses’ manes. 

After Sansa’s birth Shyra has created a new life for herself in the Vale and married an Arryn of Gulltown. Sansa didn’t know if her mother had any other children. She desperately wanted to ask Ser Cortany, but he grew morose whenever he spoke of her and Sansa couldn’t risk offending him. 

"Has your father ever told you of your mother?" Sansa asked trying to shift the focus onto her betrothed. Jon’s grey eyes darkened. 

"No. He’s promised me answers time and time again but….I still don’t even know if she’s alive or dead.” 

Sansa nodded. She had heard several theories about Jon Snow’s mother. Some swore she was Ashara Dayne, others said she was a Dornish wet nurse or some fisherman’s daughter. None of the theories made much sense to Sansa.

How had Jon’s mother been able to find Lord Stark in Dorne? Who traipses around the seven kingdoms with a newborn babe during wartime? Surely, it would have been much more prudent for her to travel to Winterfell since Lord Stark would have returned there eventually. 

Mayhaps Jon’s mother was a Dornish woman and Lord Stark had gone to visit her after finding his sister at the Tower of Joy, only to discover that she had given birth to his natural son. But, that didn’t make sense either. What Dornish woman would have been at Lord Stark’s side nine months before the end of the war? Still, Sansa didn’t think it proper to bring up all this speculation. After all, a lady should follow her lord husband’s lead when dealing with delicate personal matters. 

Sansa could feel Jon drifting away from her. He had that brooding withdrawn look again, chin down, shoulders back, jaw clutched, eyes steely. This was the longest conversation they’d ever had and he was shutting down already. She had to do something!

“When I was a little girl my septa refused to tell me anything about my mother.” 

His head snapped up like a puppet on a string. Jon’s focus was immediately back on her. It felt odd sharing something so private with a mere acquittance, but if she needed to show vulnerability to make him love her then so be it. 

“I used to make up all sorts of stories about her. I imagined that she was a wood witch who only left me because her visions told her that she must travel to Asshia and become a shadowbinder.” 

Sansa snuck a look at Jon and noticed a wistful smile playing across his somber face. 

“I told myself that she’d put a protection spell on me before she left and was using her magic to watch over me.....It’s stupid.” 

“No, no it’s not.” The sudden husk in his voice made Sansa shiver. There was a new heat in his gaze that she couldn’t quite name. 

“Jon!” Bran barged into the parlor, with a bedraggled Arya on his heels. 

Jon instinctively leaned away from her. And just like that, the spark of romance was snuffed out. 

“Arya’s stolen my bow and she won’t give it back.” 

“No, I didn’t!” 

“Did too!” 

Sansa prided herself on knowing when she wasn't wanted. Natural born children were always a burden so it didn't do to impose on the goodwill of others. 

“It’s not my fault you lose everything!” 

Sansa seamlessly slipped out of the chamber. A sheepish smile danced across her face as she walked down the corridor. Her moment had been interrupted but she had finally made a breakthrough. Besides, Jon would have to approach her again to return her sketches and bobbins. At this rate, she'd have him half in love with her before they reached their new home.

**Author's Note:**

> This little plot bunny has been swirling around in my head for a long time. Any opinions of what their future name, sigil and house words should be are welcome.


End file.
